Children Waiting, Going Nowhere
by Min Daae
Summary: Things are going well. Future-fic.


Funny enough, they ended up in Kansas.

Pretty small town, about fifty miles from Lawrence, but still. It was kind of funny that after all this time they ended up that close to where everything started, back when everything had been…pretty simple, really. At first it was just going to be a month's break, a well-deserved fucking breather. In a fucking house, with showers and everything. (Sure, it was kind of a wreck of a house, but it was affordable.) A month went by. They talked about going to the Grand Canyon and decided it wasn't worth the drive. Sam bought another month of rent without asking, and when Dean called him out on it just shrugged and said, "The world's not ending right now, is it?" And actually kind of smiled.

(Sad, how much that made Dean's heart jump into his throat for just a second.)

Dean got a construction job. (Temporary.) Sam supplemented income by snagging a job as a cashier at the bookstore. Another month went by.

It was funny, after all this time, how easy it turned out to be to put down roots. Dean had always wondered how Bobby had gotten off the road. It turned out you got tired enough, it happened.

"We're getting old," Dean griped, when Sam tentatively (reluctantly) mentioned hunting to him. "We've saved the world twice now. Three times? Lost count. Let the next generation pick it up from here."

Funny, but Sam didn't actually seem too bothered by that decision. Dean had half expected him to argue, half expected Sam to claim that he still had a debt to pay, but Sam just…made tea.

They settled in. New Haven, Kansas (was there one in every state?) was a nice town. Small enough to be quiet, big enough that nobody looked too funny at the newcomers when they trekked to the grocery store and argued about organic vegetables, a little too loudly. People were friendly, easygoing. (Probably assumed they were gay, but whatever.) It was okay.

After all this time, it felt a little like coming home.

"Bobby would have liked it here," Dean said, one night, sitting on the porch, and when Sam looked at him sharply realized that it was the first time he'd said Bobby's name like that for months. For a second, he was prepared to get defensive, then Sam relaxed.

"Yeah," Sam said, a slightly rough edge on his voice. "He probably would."

~.~

Dean remembered thinking that first night in Lisa's house, the image of Sam falling still burned behind his eyelids (his jaw still aching with remembered pain) that he couldn't possibly do this, that Sam was kidding, that he didn't know anything about normal fucking life.

It turned out he was actually pretty good at making friends. Even when he didn't really want to. Dean discovered he had a lot of talents that he hadn't expected, that year. (Terrible year, but it could have been worse. They'd _had _worse.) His golf swing was still pretty good.

Dean liked their neighbors. Hannah Wilson, who lived down the road, had a six year old daughter with a sweet tooth who kept trying to tell Dean about her plans to smuggle a pony home. Emory Carter across the street and his wife Beth had been married for forty years. Matilda, who bought a dozen eggs once every two weeks exactly (you couldn't turn off observational skills) was five months pregnant and had a smile like a movie star. _Singin' in the Rain _was her favorite movie.

They were good people. Meeting them, Dean felt a little bit better, maybe, about all the pain. Saving the world sounded great on paper and sucked in real life. Saving Matilda and her movie star smile ("Gene Kelly! They just don't make them like that anymore,") was something he could maybe, kind of, be a little proud of.

The first time Emory and Beth invited them over, Dean had been skeptical. Almost freaked out. He turned down the invitation and they turned up later in the evening anyway, or Beth did, holding a covered tin. Dean stared at her blankly as she held it out.

"We figured you should get a proper welcome," she said, and then Dean caught a whiff of the pie.

It was really fucking good pie, too.

"What would you think," Dean asked, later that evening (after it was pretty clear that pretending they weren't sticking around was just getting embarrassing), "If I told you we were only staying for Beth's pie?"

Sam looked up from his crossword and snorted. "I wouldn't be even a little surprised," he drawled.

The next time Beth invited them over, Dean was on his feet at once. "Hey, Sam," he said. "We're going to the neighbor's house."

"Nah," Sam said. "I'm not hungry. You go."

Dean accepted it that time. And when Sam was never hungry any of the other times, figured Sam just didn't like pie. Which was…weird, but meant more for Dean, and Sam didn't seem to mind.

It wasn't like everything was okay. Sam had days where he would curl up in bed and tuck his head down and refuse to say a word. Dean had days where everything hurt so bad he would drink himself stupid or drive out of town to start a fight somewhere else. (Never in New Haven. That would just be rude.)

He stopped that after Sam dragged him to a hospital with a broken wrist and nose, though. All Sam said was, "Dean," and then shook his head, but it was enough to make Dean feel a little like shit.

Also, the wrist hurt, and money was tight for a couple months, which was also unpleasant.

But they were…better. Maybe. Possibly. At least, that was what they'd keep telling themselves, and one of these days maybe it would even be true.

Maybe they couldn't do this forever, but a while would be nice. Domestic, it turned out, wasn't such a bad life after all.

Things could be so much worse. Right now, Dean was taking it a day at a time.

~.~

"That brother of yours ever going to come over?" Emory asked, and Dean blinked.

"What?"

Beth looked amused. "Emory and I were just talking. Wondering if you keep him locked up in that house of yours when he's not at work. Swear I've hardly seen him since you two moved in."

_Sam does things, _Dean started to say, and then thought about it.

Sam was good at making friends. He'd done it at Stanford, after all, kept in touch with them for a while after, even. Sam took one look at people with those goddamn eyes and they wanted to take care of him, do anything he asked. Sam with his smile and his dimples and his stupid hair. People _liked _Sam. Sure, Dean was good with girls, but…

"Huh," Dean said. Beth suddenly looked a little concerned.

"Is he okay?" She asked, and Dean didn't realize what his face must have looked like until she flinched and hastily said, "It's none of my business, of course, but Jenny – his boss at the bookstore, you know, we're good friends – said he said something about some trouble he might have…" She trailed off, awkwardly.

Dean smoothed his expression. "Nah," he said, but the pie was suddenly sitting uncomfortably heavy in his stomach. "He's fine. Just likes his quiet evenings, you know."

To his relief, the Carters let that one slide, and Dean went home and found Sam reading on a couch. _East of Eden. _Fucking geek. "Hey," Dean said, "What did you tell your boss?"

Sam looked up, seeming surprised. "Just that I had some history of…uh, stuff. And that if something went down she should call you." He made a small sound like a laugh. "I'm kind of amazed she hired me, actually. Probably felt bad."

Dean felt an intense anger low in his belly, but it was gone in a flash, and it was dumb, possessive, _your damage is mine to know _sort of thing, Dean didn't even _know. _Whatever. "Yeah, okay," Dean said. "You might want to be careful about who you tell, though. People gossip."

Sam shrugged. "Okay," he said. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"'Okay?'"

"Honestly, Dean," Sam said, with a little quirk of the corner of his mouth, "What are these people going to say that'll bother me? I'm pretty much over having a problem with people thinking I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," Dean said, heatedly, and Sam made another one of those chuffing noises, laughing.

"Yeah," Sam said, painfully sarcastic. "Okay, Dean. Can I go back to my book?"

Which was the end of that conversation, but what Beth said about Sam, about not seeing him outside of the house, stuck in Dean's head, and at the end of the weekend Dean dragged Sam out to a bar. He'd always been weird about things, after all. Maybe he just needed a little help.

Dean ran into Ryan (owned the hardware store, couldn't talk enough about his two sons) at the bar and got sucked into a conversation. He caught sight of some pretty girl heading in Sam's direction, and smirked inwardly.

Except that when he got out of the conversation, Sam's table was empty, and the girl looked disappointed. Dean panicked momentarily, but before he could really work himself into a frenzy stepped outside and found Sam leaning against the building.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, and couldn't quite keep it from being sharp. Sam's eyes slid sideways, and he seemed almost confused by the question. Dean felt a lurch of fear. "Did someone," he started to ask, and Sam shook his head.

"No, I'm – I'm fine, Dean," he said, and smiled, that weird, almost awkward half smile that he pulled out so often lately. "Just…this isn't really my thing. I'll walk home. It's not far."

Okay, Dean thought, staring blankly after Sam. Okay, Sam had never been a big fan of bar hopping. This wasn't really a surprise. It didn't mean anything.

They could do something else.

~.~

Sam didn't want to do something else.

Dean got invited to Hannah's daughters' birthday party as a chaperone (which was just plain weird). He got friendly with most of the construction crew and ended up in their weekly poker games (where he invariably cleaned up, but nobody minded). He offered to help Matilda carry her groceries and ended up getting talked into going out for coffee (it was good coffee).

Dean invited Sam to everything he got asked to, and there was always a reason Sam couldn't go.

It was Matilda who said it first, twisting her hair around her finger and looking almost shy. (Dean hoped this wasn't a date. That could get weird.) Then she said, "Your brother," and Dean blinked. And then pricked his ears.

"Hmm?"

"I get the feeling…" she blushed. "I get the feeling he doesn't like me very much." She stared down at her coffee, and Dean wondered briefly if they were talking about the same Sam.

"Seriously?" he said, nearly incredulous. "_Sam? _Babe, there aren't a whole lot of people Sam doesn't like. I mean, here, he's-"

And it was then, trying to come up with friends of Sam's in New Haven, that it clicked. For the last eight months, he'd been making friends. Sam had been…not. Had been drifting. Watching, and a helpful section of Dean's brain filled in, _watching you move on without him. _

And that wasn't it, that would never be it, but what if… ah, shit. Sam.

"I should go," he said, abruptly, and Matilda looked confused.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No," he said, "No, you're fine." I should have noticed before now. How long had it been since Sam had actually smiled? How long since Sam had made a connection with someone that wasn't Dean?

How long had Sam been in retreat from the world, and Dean had been too busy eating fucking _pie_ to even realize that they were still hip-deep in denial?

Sam was at work when he got back to the house. He'd left a note on the counter.

Their house, quiet and simple, seemed big and empty. He went up to Sam's room and looked at it, really looked at it, the bed perfectly made, and except for the shelf of books (even with the shelf of books) Dean wondered if he would even think that anyone lived here.

Maybe for a second, Dean hated Sam, because they'd been _good. _

(But they never had.)

He sat down on the bed (hospital corners) and looked at the curtains (drawn) and hurt.

~.~

Sam came upstairs with his head down in the late afternoon. Dean was waiting for him. "Hey," he said, and Sam stopped dead.

Dean thought to wonder, for a second, how Sam did that. How he just _knew, _no matter how much Dean tried to hide it, that something was wrong. He'd always been good at it, and it'd driven Dean crazy…pretty much all the time.

"Hey," Sam said, cautiously, and Dean caught himself searching Sam's face, looking for something wrong, some hint that Sam wasn't as okay as he seemed. If he'd lost weight, maybe (had he?) or looked more tired than a day at work warranted. "Something up?"

"I dunno," Dean said, and damn that came out too accusatory. Dean tried to soften his voice. "Hey, Sam. Do you have any…friends, here?"

Sam stared at Dean like _he _was worried about something. "…why?" He asked, still cautious, and not moving a step closer. It wasn't really an answer, but it was a Sam answer, in a way. A _I don't want to answer your question so I'll turn it back on you _answer.

"Sam," said Dean, and stopped. He stood up and paced over to the bookshelf (organized by author, alphabetically). "—why are we here?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up, and now he just looked quizzical. "We're taking a break. Getting out while we can. Why do you ask?"

"Okay," Dean said, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Okay, fine, but – what are we _doing?_"

Sam looked even more quizzical. "Living life? Dean, can you get to the point, because you're kind of-"

"Are you – Sam, are you _happy?_"

Sam blinked, like he didn't understand the question, and then sighed and shifted to lean against the doorframe for a second before crossing the room and sitting down on the bed. "Dean," he said. "I know you worry and I know I can't keep you from worrying, but I'm-"

"If you say _fine _I'll punch you," Dean said, savagely. "I want to know if you're _happy. _If this – if this shit is what you want."

Dean wondered if he was looking for the glance down, the way Sam's smile was just a little too tight. And dimple-less. They all were, though. "Yeah, Dean. What else would I…"

"Then why aren't you-" Dean swore. "Sam. Just. It's like…someone had to point it out to me, but it's like you're not even here sometimes. Like – you're here, but really you're…somewhere else, just going through the motions but not really…and if this isn't what you want, I mean, we can-"

"Dean," Sam said, so _fucking _gently, "What I want doesn't matter. It hasn't for a while now." He smiled, and it actually looked real, which just made it _worse. _"And that's okay, all right? I'm not saying that to make you feel bad, I'm _not. _I get to see you happy. And that's…that counts for a lot."

It was like Sam had punched him in the stomach. Sam, sitting on the bed and looking at him with so much _caring, _like he didn't need to be happy, like the afterglow of Dean's poker nights and friendships was enough to live on, and god, _Sam, _you fucking _bitch. _

"Jesus," Dean said, and choked on it a little. Sam grimaced.

"See, this is why – I knew you'd take it wrong," he said, sounding almost annoyed, like this was somehow Dean's fault, and Dean clenched his fists so he didn't drag Sam to his feet and shake him.

"I'd _take it wrong, _Sam, don't you – it goes both ways, okay? I was happy because I thought _you _were happy, I thought things were okay-"

"Things _are _okay," Sam said, implacable, and Dean wheeled on him.

"No," he said, angrily. "They're not. Sam, god, how long has it been since you did anything just because you _wanted _to? What _do _you want?"

Sam leaned his elbows on his knees, chin on his hands. "I don't," he said, blandly, looking – _sympathetic, _fuck him.

"What?"

"I don't," Sam said. "Want anything. I…spent a long time wanting a lot of things, Dean. It didn't work out for me. That's _okay, _all right? I'm…fine with that. I don't need anything. It's your turn to get the things you want." Sam sat back, shrugged his shoulders. "I always knew you'd be good at it." Dean stared at him, blankly, and Sam said, "Normal life," like it was obvious.

"This isn't one or the other, Sam," Dean said, kind of reeling, and the corner of Sam's mouth twitched up and he said, "Isn't it?"

Dean's stomach twisted. He didn't want to think about what Sam meant by that. Didn't want to, and didn't. "No," he said, stubbornly. "It isn't. You don't have to – shit, you don't have to be a _martyr _for me to be happy. I want you to…do what you want, Sam. Make friends. Go out once in a while when you're not – working. Whatever."

"Dean," Sam said, and his voice had gone all gentle again, "That's just…that's not me anymore."

Dean spluttered. "That's not – you," he said, and then stopped. Sam had always been the one to connect with the witnesses. To attach to them and feel their pain. Sarah and Madison and Max and all the rest-

Madison was years ago, now, and the others even further back. Sam was watching him with something like sympathy, and Dean tried to focus, tried to think of someone in the last two – three – years that Sam had really attached to. Castiel had always been closer to Dean. Bobby had _admitted _to liking Dean best. And in the last year…

Krissy had been the closest, and even then.

_How long, _he'd asked, and should have been asking, _have you not noticed, Dean, stupid, stupid, stupid. _

"It's okay," Sam said again. "I'm okay, Dean. This is fine. I'm not unhappy. I'm…glad you can have this. I really am."

"I have to go for a walk," Dean said, numbly, and headed out of Sam's room, Sam's empty, quiet, impersonal room.

It was a warm night. Emory and Beth were sitting on their front porch, arms around each other, and waved at him briefly as he walked by. Sam had always been too goddamn smart for his own good. Too quick to make these leaps and not inform him until it was too late, _Dean, I have demon blood in me, Dean, I have to be the one to kill Lilith, Dean, you have to let me jump into Hell. _

_Dean, I know you can be happy and I'm not going to hold you back. _

All the good things, Dean thought, always turned out to be built on lies. Except Sam wasn't lying. He really thought this was best. Really thought this was _okay. _That Dean could just let him fade into the background little by little, a ghost in his own life, and no. _No._

It was dark when he got back to the house. There was dinner on the table (overcooked pasta and peas) and no Sam, and Dean thought _it's like he's my fucking wife and I'm an abusive husband or something _and it wasn't even a little bit funny.

Dean went to bed early and didn't sleep. Thinking.

~.~

It only took about a day or so of planning to set up, and Dean was awake the day after everything was set when Sam came downstairs rubbing sleep out of his eyes to go to work (early, when had Sam extended his hours). "Hey," Dean said, and Sam looked at him, seeming simultaneously worried and puzzled, and Dean felt a little bad for not really talking to him since the other night.

"Hey," Sam said, "Dean," and sat down, slowly. He looked like he was bracing for something, and Dean tried not to think about what.

"We've got the week off," Dean said in a rush. "We're going to go on a drive."

Sam looked sideways at Dean. "Did you find a," he started to say, sounding both more puzzled and more worried, and Dean shook his head sharply.

"We're going to the Southwest," Dean said. "I think it's time we visit the Grand Canyon."

Sam laid his hands flat on the table. "If this is about the other night," he said, slowly, and Dean gave him his best shit-eating grin.

"Come on," he said. "I have some vacation time. We're supposed to be relaxing, right? And we've been saying we'd do it for fucking _ever. _Let's just…go."

Sam hesitated a moment longer, studying Dean, but Dean already knew what he would say.

They packed lightly and fast – something they were still good at. Sam seemed hesitant the whole time, and kept watching Dean like he was trying to pull something, but he was still pretty sure that the expression on Sam's face when he came out of the house and saw the Impala in the driveway was completely genuine, and totally worth the effort.

~.~

The southwest was big, hot, and full of deserts. Sam got a sunburn on his nose on the first day and they both got religious about the sunscreen after that. They drove for long hours (just like old times) with the windows down and music blaring, the engine's sound still familiar. Sam still tended to fall asleep when he wasn't driving, and slept more quietly than he had in years. They played dumb games of Would You Rather ("would you rather be forced to watch wrestling or synchronized skating for the rest of your life?" "that's just mean.") and Dean pretended he didn't notice Sam watching him.

They hustled pool, mostly because they could.

The Grand Canyon was farther away than Dean'd thought it would be. Which probably explained why they'd never actually gone before now. He felt kind of weird about going now. It'd been code between him and Sam for so long, the joyride they'd never take because there was never any time.

They had time now. Well, they didn't. But they were making time.

They got there after dark, and even in the dark they could both see that it was huge. Sam breathed out, and whistled.

"Jesus," he said. "I can't…quite believe we're actually here." He glanced sideways, and half grinned. "Want to ride some donkeys down tomorrow?"

Dean made a face. "Your legs would drag on the ground, Gigantor." He bumped Sam's shoulder with his. "Let's go sit at the lookout."

They sat with their legs hanging off the edge, which was probably dumb but didn't even come fifth on the list of dumb things they'd done over the years. Sam swung his feet a few times and then said, "All right, spit it out."

Dean had to work out how Sam did that. "What?" he said, trying innocence, and Sam turned his head and looked at him, smile gone.

"Whatever you wanted to say that required we go here for you to say it."

"Oh," Dean said, unconvincingly. "Yeah. That."

They sat in silence for a couple minutes. Dean cleared his throat, carefully.

"Sam," he said, slowly. "You know why Lisa and Ben didn't work out?"

He could hear Sam fighting down the urge to say 'because I came back.' Could practically hear it. "I can think of a few reasons," he said, finally. Dean shook his head.

"I was there for a year, and it was good, I'm not going to lie," Dean said. "But I couldn't have been happy there. I never could have. Cause-" Jesus, Sam was going to turn him into a girl. "—cause you weren't there. You were _gone, _as far as I knew for good."

"Dean," said Sam.

"No, stop, I'm not done," Dean said, and it came out a little harshly. "Look, Sam. There's always been one prerequisite for my happiness. Just one. And that's you, geek boy."

"That's not-"

"Shut the fuck up and listen to me, Sam," Dean snapped, and Sam's mouth closed. Dean took a deep breath through his nose. "Those other people…back in New Haven. They're great, they're cool, I like getting to know them, but the last few days…" Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He got one chance at this, and he had to do it right. "The only person I really need around is you. Okay? If you decided to go live in the middle of the woods, if that would make you happy, I'd be there, and I'd be…"

"Dean," Sam said again, more softly. "That's not…that's not it. I just…can't. I don't know _how._"

"Neither do I," Dean said. "Neither does anyone. No one _ever _knows what they're doing with other people. People want to know you, Sam."

Sam seemed to shrink into himself. "I don't-"

"I'm not going to leave you behind, Sam," Dean said, and tried to make it sound firm and tough and not – sappy. He didn't think it worked very well. "I'm just not. Okay? We're getting a life. Actually. So…I don't know. Live it?"

Sam's head dropped forward, and his hair fell into his face. "I don't deserve it," Sam said, and he didn't even sound upset, not really, just resigned. "You do. I don't."

Dean wanted to shake his younger brother, wanted to yell in his face _you've fucking paid enough, we've both paid enough. _Instead, he shrugged. "Okay, maybe you don't. But as far as I'm concerned, neither do I, and neither does that guy who always gets more than ten items in the ten items or less line. Yet here we all are."

Sam closed his eyes. "Dean-"

"I know I can't make you do anything," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet. "I know I can't – _make _you be happy, or make you tell me what you want, or even try to figure out what that _is. _But if you want me to be happy, Sam, can't you figure that I want the same thing for you?" He brushed his hands off on his pants. "I'm going to go sleep in the car. You can have the backseat."

If Sam called after him, Dean pretended not to hear it.

~.~

Dean woke up to Sam knocking on the window. It was just starting to get light. "Hey, Dean," he said, "You've gotta come see this." He was holding a coffee in one hand.

Dean rolled out of the car awkward and stood up. Sam was looking east, and Dean followed his gaze to the purple-blue-orange-pink horizon. "Oh Jesus," he said. "Okay. That's…pretty gorgeous." Sam was quiet for a couple seconds, and Dean glanced at him. Sam seemed to be thinking.

Then he shifted and his shoulder brushed against Dean, just for a second. "I like this," Sam said, almost under his breath, and when Dean glanced at him, Sam smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling up. He held out the coffee.

"Here," he said. "You'll want this, if you want to be awake for our hike."

"Hike?" said Dean, blankly, and Sam laughed, short and bright and surprised.

"Hey," his brother said, as he started toward the car, probably for a change of clothes. "When we get back? Maybe you could. I dunno. Invite Emory and Beth over to our house? I figure we owe them like twenty pies by now."

Sam sounded nervous. Still, Dean thought he'd hurt his face by grinning so hard.


End file.
